No School Like the Old School: Opposites Attract
by AmazingArcana
Summary: If you've played the game than you know how this story ends, but have you ever wondered how it all began? They say in chemistry that opposites attract, no one ever said the same rule applied to magic... The lore based romantic tragedy of Malistaire and Sylvia Drake. Formal disclaimer can be found inside.
1. Collision

Disclaimer!

'No School Like the Old School: Opposites Attract' is a work of fan fiction using the characters and setting of the game Wizard101. Wizard101, its characters, and the world of the Spiral are owned by KingsIsle Entertainment. I do not work for KingsIsle Entertainment, have direct contact with them, or claim any ownership of their characters, concepts, or ideas. The story I have written is not purported or believed to be cannon to the game and is for entertainment purposes only. I am thankful to KingsIsle for the elaborate worlds and characters they have created, without which this story would not exist. I would like to thank anyone and everyone who reads, reviews, follows, and supports this story, you humble me and have my deepest gratitude. I ask you to please support the official game. Thank you and enjoy!

* * *

Sylvia's back plowed against the ground, the bones of the skeletal dragon clicked and snapped as its tail swept across the arena floor.

"Get up Spitfire!" her instructor demanded.

Sylvia forced herself to stand, legs quivering as she stood, a steel sword wavering in her grasp. Every ragged breath made her weaker, her armor heavier, her senses duller. Sparks danced before her eyes, her vision fading as the world tilted slightly.

A freezing blast tore her helmet from her head- startling her muted senses. She quickly resumed her previous stance and gathered her resolve.

A wraith shrieked nearby; instinctively, she raised her wards as it manifested before her. Its power swelled as it swung its scythe and wrenched the blade from her hands. The wraith raised its weapon overhead; Sylvia's heart pounded as she tumbled to reach her blade. Her sword ignited into column of searing white metal, with a harsh swing she severed the creature's arms. Soon it was nothing but a pile of ash.

She was shaking, she fell to her knees again, a sharp pain arced across her body. Slowly she summoned the strength to stand once more.

Her opponent stood across the dueling circle like a slender dark tower, unfazed by her suffering. His expression was indifferent, eyes hollow and deceiving, with the slightest sneer upon his face. Sylvia half wondered who she'd offended to be placed in such a skewed duel. For it was none other than Malistaire Drake, one of the most formidable necromancers and well-known duelists in Dragonspyre Command Academy.

Sylvia spoke the incantation for her next summon, the words falling from her lips like dead weights. A beautiful phoenix rose from the summoning circle, it screamed and bathed the necromancer in bright gold flames. The bird soon vanished in a puff of smoke yet Malistaire remained unscathed.

* * *

A thread of curiosity wove through Malistaire's mind, he had sworn he'd seen her before. But where? A newspaper? A photograph? Malistaire raised another series of wards while he tried to place a name to her face.

She cast her next spell; a leathery snap sounded overhead as a great red dragon descended onto the field, flames spewing from its toothy maw. Her style was brutish but precise, she cast spells with the excruciating exactness expected of an officer. But her summons intrigued him, every pyromancer he'd dueled used a binding incantation to dominate their summons, and yet all she did was say the words and the creatures came and did her bidding.

Spitfire charged through the smoke catching him off guard, his cheek stung as the hot metal bit across it. Dismayed- Malistaire ran a hand over his cheek, stunned by the red glean spread across his fingers. To him she was a mystery, perhaps she could surprise him…

Malistaire stood still, gazing upon her exhausted stance. He couldn't seem to fathom what it was about her that he found so… interesting. She was of average height, somewhat pale skinned, with pencil thin brows, and short straight brown hair. Her eyes were enthralling, a striking emerald green with hints of hazel that gave a certain attentiveness to her face.

He would admit to staring, for a few moments. She roared in anger, swinging her sword again and again, sparks flying off his ebony staff as he parried. A bolt of flame shot from her hand, Malistaire reacted quickly, a moment later and she'd have branded his face with a cantrip. He pushed her away for fear she would try it again, unfortunately that gave her the space to draw a summoning mark.

Now she truly intrigued him, it would seem she could surprise him.

The fiery mark glowed for a moment and burst into flames. The ground shook violently, cracks splintered across the arena floor a jagged spire of rock jutted from the ground. Its peak shattered allowing molten lava slither downward. He was thankful he raised his wards when he did otherwise he might have been a little more than singed.

She was unlike any opponent he'd ever faced, she had the potential to meet him blow for blow, but she was holding back. Why, he wondered? Why was she continuing to try even when this was a battle she could not win?

He could have dueled her until both their mana orbs ran dry. However, he'd allowed this duel to drag on far too long…  
She shoved him backwards; he briefly savored the look upon her face as he turned her own tactic against her.

Darkness and shadow pulled into linen wrappings, taking the form of a mummified aztecosaur, the creature stomped its feet, rocks shooting from the ground and slamming into her chest, before she could recover Malistaire gave the command for it to finish her. The beast roared clasping its claws together sending a wave of force towards her.  
The blow had been timed perfectly, Spitfire skipped like a stone across the arena floor and into the magical barrier that surrounded the field.

Malistaire stood alone, hardly aware of the instructors moving to remove his opponent from the field. She was certainly something… something unlike anything he'd faced before.


	2. Strike

"What was that? I've seen drakelings hit harder!" Ashweaver shouted.

Sylvia couldn't deny it, she'd failed and miserably. She'd had the night to recover from the duel, and it wasn't long before her mentor dragged her out to the practice fields. Sylvia resisted the urge to yawn, she'd been up since dawn. If Ashweaver had his way, she would train until her bones cracked or till the training dummies were reduced to charcoal, whichever happened first.

She was panting now, her joints and muscle aching, any ounce of energy she'd gained from last night had vanished upon waking. Slowly Sylvia raised her sword again and uttered the spell, the mark upon the air glowed faintly before disintegrating.

Ashweaver growled with displeasure, "Your spells are weak, your stance is terrible, and you might as well be blind when it comes to accuracy! Again!"

Sylvia did as commanded, sparks spat and cracked only for the spell disintegrate once more.

"I have trained some of the greatest pyromancers in this academy's history! I'm beginning to question if you're worth my time. Again!"

A spark of rage embedded itself in her mind as she cast the spell again. Sylvia's flames roared to life, she covered the floor of the arena in one fiery sweep.

"Pathetic! You are a battlemage of the Dragonspyre Command Academy! Fight like it!"

Sylvia roared in anger and frustration, she was tired of listening to his annoying criticism. She sent a raging cone of flame across the arena, at this point all she wanted was to watch the pathetic training dummies burn. She held her ground, and forced the spell to continue until there wasn't a drop of mana left in her body. The smoke was slowly carried off by the wind, revealing four smoldering dummies.

A series of claps came from behind her, "Well done, continue to perform like that and the academy may still have a place for you Spitfire. You're dismissed."

Smoke slithered between her fingers, rage still coursed through her veins, she felt powerful and terrified at the same time... Every teacher she'd had told her that pyromancy revolved around anger and rage, it was that which gave the dragon titan its power. The very same ancient monster that was beyond mercy or reason, its power was as unimaginable as it was uncontrollable. It was unsettling to think that her as well as every pyromancer in the academy was taught to emulate it.

Few good things had been born of titans' flames.

Sylvia had never been sure if her powers were among those few things. She was a good person, not a monster. She couldn't be, she wouldn't be.

Slowly Sylvia walked about the campus, tension hung in the air like a beast about to pounce. Rivalry was everywhere between duelists, clans, and entire classes even. Everyone seemed to wear the marks of cruelty and bitterness beneath their similar uniforms and placid faces. It was obvious to anyone, no one had come here by choice.

"They say another group of students went missing last night, a pity you weren't one of them." A young woman said loftily.

"I'm sure whatever happened they're fine." A familiar voice shouted, "They probably got caught skipping class. Just give me my spell book Drusilla!"

Cyrus Drake, of course of all the things he would be in such a mess. Cyrus was such a stark contrast to his twin brother it was hard to think them related at all. He looked like his brother in almost every way save for his dark brown curly hair and compassionate blue eyes.

Cyrus was nothing like any battlemage in Dragonspyre, Sylvia didn't think he ever could be. He had always had a deep respect for art, literature, and mythology, it was a shame that so few shared his passion.

"Why? You obviously don't use it." Drusilla said imposingly, "You're a disgrace really. It's no wonder why your brother is embarrassed by you."

Cyrus sighed in frustration, "Just tell your lackey, Ivan, to return my book or I'll-"

"Or you'll do what?" Ivan said flailing the stolen book beyond his reach.

"You'll leave him alone." Sylvia seethed as she strode to Cyrus's side.

"And who exactly do you think you are?"

"Student Commander of Strategic Operations, stand down or I will summon the guards."

Drusilla scoffed, "The academy has really lowered its standards if they're allowing boorish commoners the title of Student Commander."

"They ought to just expel you!" Ivan chimed obtusely.

"I'm sorry did say you could speak, private?" Sylvia said venomously.

Undeniably startled Ivan, quickly shook his head, "No ma'am."

"Good, at least some of the old clans manage produce children with brains still in their heads. What about you, if I recall it's been what? Six, seven years after your parents bought your way into this academy? And you're not even an officer, it would be a shame if they knew what you were really doing all day."

"Ugh!" Drusilla cheeks now flushed with embarrassment, "Ivan, put this smart mouthed peasant in her place!"

Ivan looked between the two of them as if trying to decide who he feared more… It wasn't long till Ivan silently backed down.

"Smart boy." Sylvia mused giving a nod to Ivan.

Drusilla roared in anger and seized the book from the young man's hands and swung it towards Sylvia's head. With little effort, Sylvia managed to catch the book before it could make contact.

Sylvia clicked her tongue, "You should know, Drusilla, that physically assaulting a superior officer on Academy grounds is punishable by expulsion. I could have you court-martialed for this…"

"You wouldn't dare. You may have me outranked, peasant, but your clanless blood will never be worth anything to anyone but the army!" Drusilla hissed, "That title cannot protect you outside these walls."

Drusilla shrieked with fright as a sudden flash of blue and gold flew towards her.

"Begone witch!" Cyrus growled casting the spell again, "And take your little minion with you!"

The book soon clattered to the ground, Drusilla swiftly ran for cover with Ivan on her heels.

Cyrus quickly snatched the book away from the ground, "I'm terribly sorry Sylvia, are you alright?"

"I'm fine, Drusilla is not as strong as she thinks."

"Permission to speak freely?"

"You needn't to ask, but, permission granted."

"I'm honestly not sure if you're the most audacious, or stupidest person I've ever met-"

Though he was not the most powerful battlemage she knew, but he was a rather talented artist with a vast imagination. She'd seen one or two of his paintings, they were extraordinary, landscapes captured with such vibrancy it was like he'd photographed them in color. Not to mention that no one in the academy could edit essays like he did, his command of the written word was phenomenal. He was not much of a battlemage, but he was a loyal and honest friend. That and she knew of no dragonspyrian who could make kombucha.

"-You just insulted the first-born of one of Dragonspyre's most powerful clans to her face, then threated to court-martial her."

"On legitimate grounds, assaulting an officer is a serious offense."

"I only hope that serpent doesn't come back to bite you."

"As long as I'm here she cannot do much outside of file a complaint."

"Aren't you worried they'll replace you?"

"I'd like to see them try-"

"Commander Spitfire." A messenger called.

She turned to look at once, "Yes? What is it?"

"The dean of admissions wants to speak with you, immediately."

"Well that was quick." Cyrus mumbled with a worried look.

Sylvia nodded silently, telling the messenger she would be on her way.

Threads of uncertainty crept down her spine. All she could do was entertain a single sarcastic thought:  
"Great, simply great."

* * *

Malistaire gave a heavy unamused sigh, he had done nothing wrong, all his paperwork was in order, and his expenses to the academy had been paid for the semester, any reason as to why the Dean of Admissions wanted to see him now was purely unnecessary. This was perhaps the most pointless thing he'd had to do all week, hopefully this meeting wouldn't take too long his next class was in half an hour.

Whatever had happened in the arena yesterday, whatever he had felt must have been a fluke for the lack of a better word). He knew nothing about the girl, he couldn't even remember her name. Besides there were plenty of female pyromancers in attendance to the academy of similar description, within a few days she would be nothing but a forgotten memory. Except some small part of him didn't want to forget.

Malistaire sneered inwardly at himself as he continued towards the dean's office.

He would not deny his curiosity in what the dean had to say; however, the timing of the summons was a considerable nuisance to his schedule.

The admissions office was crowed and silent, it was easy to tell what the various people had been summoned for, some were rigid and painfully alert others sat calmly in silence. Most would be returning to the place they came while a select few would become full-fledged students.

Malistaire approached the secretary's desk, the aged woman immediately waved him back, "Malistaire Drake? The dean is expecting you." She said before promptly returning to her work.

Malistaire knew well enough where he was going, the large office at the end of the hall with the double doors emblazoned with great coiled dragons at the end of the hallway.

"-I was told you summoned for me?" A young woman said from the other side of the doors.

A dark brooding voice spoke, "Yes, I did, I only ask you-"

Malistaire pushed the doors open, the sunlight blinding him as he entered. Thankfully the light was blotted out by the dark gloomy robes of Vladimir Darkflame, Dean of Admissions.

Malistaire painfully noted the pyromancer he'd dueled from the day before. What was she still doing here? He wondered. He had an important meeting with the dean, he'd been summoned by name. She had no right to remain-

"Excellent, you are both here." The dean said gesturing to an empty chair, "Please, sit down Drake, we have much to discuss."

Malistaire quickly obeyed, seating himself silently. The dean turned to face them motioning for the curtains to close causing the room to grow vastly darker.

"Now, what I am about to tell you must not to be mentioned outside this room. As you both have almost completed your required service to the Dragonspyrian Army, you are no doubt aware of the threat our world faces. -"

Draconians, greedy waring beasts with no morals or mercy who cared for nothing save battle and power. Their warriors could stand near seven feet tall, wings spanning twice their height, jaws capable of crushing steel armor, claws that could rend a drake's wing in two, and a potent fiery breath which they claimed was a gift from their draconic ancestors.

They'd made up the bulk of the dragons' armies, bringing fear and destruction to all who stood against them. When the dragon titan fell their armies remained and began to war amongst themselves for control. They'd been scattered and disorganized for centuries, without the dragons to lead them, they'd become little more than a thorn in the army's side.

"-As of late we have been receiving many curious reports. Large groups of draconians shifting through abandoned ruins throughout the Avernus Skyway. The many members of the council are concerned that they are organizing an attack on Dragonspyre. However; if my assessments of these reports are correct we are in far greater danger than the council realizes. It may sound foolish, but I believe the draconians are attempting to recover the Titan's Tears."

"Aren't they just a fantasy?" Malistaire chided slightly.

Malistaire had to stop himself from smirking, the Titan's Tears were nothing but a figment of Dragonspyrian legend. A series of tall tales one told to frighten naughty little children into behaving.

"We have no way of knowing for certain; however, we do know there is something that the draconians are searching for in great force and that does not bode well for Dragonspyre. With the news of Polaris's attacks on Valencia, Monquista, and Marleybone the many members of the council believe we could be next."

"If the draconians side with Polarian forces, they would become an overwhelming force, with or without the Tears. Every city in the outside Dragonspyre would be overrun." The girl spoke softly.

"You assume too much, pyromancer, draconians don't share power. Who's to say they won't just-"

"I have a name! As the student Commander of Strategic Operations, I suggest you use it."

"As if I cared to remember the likes of you-"

"Enough! I did not bring the two of you here to argue!" The dean snapped, "I was given an order to select two students to locate and retrieve the Titan's Tears.

After having arranged and observed countless duels yesterday I have decided that the two of you are the best candidates to undertake this mission."

The both of them looked at the dean in surprise.

"Wouldn't it be easier to send the army?" Malistaire asked.

"A large armed force will draw too much attention and cause unnecessary complications. I have faith you both can complete this task with the resources currently at your disposal.

If you succeed you will have proven there is nothing left that Dragonspyre Command Academy can teach you."

Malistaire remained silent pondering the opportunity before him. To say the mission was dangerous would be an understatement, yet to become a graduate of Dragonspyre Academy? The reward was far beyond tempting.

"Of course, I should also mention that failure is not an option. Either you will return with the Titan's Tears or you will not to return at all." The dean finished.

"Must we work together? I'm far more efficient on my own."

The pyromancer glared at him, the desire to silence him burning in her green eyes.

"This mission is too much for one person to handle alone, I cannot force you to work together, I would not advise it."

"Will we have time to think this over?" Spitfire asked ending his train of thought.

"You have until tomorrow to decide, I can offer you no more than that. Though, if you two do not take this assignment I am not sure who will."

Malistaire frowned slightly, he wore the frown down the halls, this simply would not do, would not do at all…


	3. Spectrum

Sylvia briskly walked through the halls of the Tactical Command Building. She had only arrived a few minutes ago, a few minutes too late in her opinion. Already there was a pack of messengers on her heels, all of them vying for her attention.

"Commander, I have the scouting reports you requested." A messenger said handing her a stack of papers.

"Thank you, you may go." She answered as another took his place.

"Commander- reports from the training grounds."

"Very good, I'll read them shortly."

"Commander Spitfire, a notice for you, from the Captain of the Guard."

"Good, you may return to your post."

"Commander, the General Vladan is conducting a meeting with the student officers and requests your attendance."

"Is this a mandatory meeting?"

"No."

"Then you may tell him, I decline his request."

"Commander, a proposal for your consideration."

"I'll look at it as soon as I'm able."

"Commander, I have a letter from one of your superiors."

"Which one?"

"Flamewing, it's not good."

"Great just-"

"Commander Spitfire-"

"Blazing heckhounds! What now?!"

"The list of events for next month…"

"Have it delivered to my quarters, I review it later."

Silently, she strode into the room that the academy had, for the moment, deemed her 'office'. Which was similar in appearance and condition to the other rooms in the building small, cluttered, and horrendously stuffy. The chances she would be relocated to a nicer spot within the building were unlikely.

Sylvia sighed and plopped her newly gained pile of papers onto the empty desk.

"Well that didn't take long." She muttered to herself looking at the pile of papers.

With a sigh she'd started reading over the reports, filling out forms, writing requisitions, sorting the papers in stacks by where they needed to be sent, and composing a new series of reports for her superiors.

She mulled over her work, nitpicking at the words, rewriting pages, making simplifications before writing the final copies. No matter how many reports she wrote she was never truly satisfied with any of them.

She moved another completed form to the 'finished' pile, only to find the bare wood of her desk underneath.

There was one thing left to do…

Sylvia starred at the blank piece of parchment, a writing quill in her hand as she debated what to tell the Dean of Admissions.

 _'…The Academy may still have a place for you Spitfire.'_

 _'Aren't you worried they'll replace you?'_

 _'As if I cared to remember the likes of you-'_

 _'That title cannot protect you outside these walls!'_

The memories of the words echoed painfully in her head. In this place her name carried weight, her rank had meaning and purpose.

Once she graduated that would change, she would be stripped of her rank and it would be handed off to whomever had been selected for the promotion.

Outside of this place she had nothing, no clan, no home, no beloved family eagerly awaiting her return, nothing. She had been told many times she would do well as a full-fledged officer, she'd been offered several decent positions yet for reasons of her own she'd declined.

Sylvia snuck a glance at an old black and white photograph that was nearly buried in paperwork. A rather shoddy image of herself from several years ago, aside three other students with their battle drakes arranged behind them.

The more she starred at them, the guiltier she felt, wishing she could have changed things.

Sylvia pushed the memories to the back of her mind, then quickly opened a one of the desk's drawers and locked the picture inside. She wouldn't let herself think about it, she couldn't, the moment had passed, the decision made, the price payed, there was no going back and changing it.

A knock came at the door, Sylvia quickly lifted her head.

"It's open." She called out.

A young private let himself in several large scroll cases in his arms. Slowly he came into the room, a somewhat frightened look upon his face as if he were staring a dragon in the eyes.

He must have been very new, as he looked rather uncertain of what he should do. Sylvia stood the young man quickly saluted, the scrolls landing in a heap on the floor. Sylvia couldn't help but smirk slightly as the poor boy was torn between what he should do, continue to salute or pick up the scrolls that were slowly rolling out his reach.

"At ease." Sylvia said, the young man scrambling to the floor.

"Commander Spitfire, I have the maps you requested from the Cartography Society. I must apologize for the delay, there were several layers of security to go through."

"You have my thanks, gaining access to Cartography Society Archives can be like pulling drakes' teeth."

"Of course- ma'am."

"You're dismissed, I'll put a good word in with your superiors."

Silence filled the room again.

Sylvia glanced at the loose pile of scrolls cases on her desk, then over at the towers of finished reports rigidly stacked upon the other side. She looked at them both over and over, weighing the risks in mind.

For the last eight years she had endured the brutality of the Command Academy, she'd scraped for the highest honors that few in history had achieved. She had made a place for herself here, a name for herself here, her future was here. Was it worth risking? Didn't it mean something?

She turned herself over to recruiters in the hopes of taming a power she hardly understood. When she was first accepted she had been bright and hopeful. Asking every question, searching for every answer, she wanted to learn everything there was to know about magic and more. And once she had, she would go home, take what she had learned and ensure no one would suffer the way she had.

Then perhaps, she wouldn't be alone anymore.

Sylvia eyed the drawer and sighed. They had believed in her, they had made her hopes their own, raised her up so maybe they might see her dream become a reality.

And for what? They were gone now, and they weren't coming back.

 _'Either you will return with the Titan's Tears or you will not to return at all.'_ The memory of dean's words echoed clearly in her mind.

If she left now, perhaps she might join them…

Slowly Sylvia reached for the drawer of the desk and retrieved the photo from inside. She reminisced over the poorly photographed image for a moment. Her thoughts briefly scathing the memories of the people in the photo.

"What should I do?" She whispered softly into the open air.

The barely audible words died in the silence of room.

She knew what had to be done, she only hoped it was the right choice.

* * *

The portal crackled and hummed as Malistaire stepped through, a deep frown set upon his face. The last time he worked with anyone on anything, him and Cyrus nearly set half their father's estate on fire.

Nothing good ever came from him working with others, so he opted to work alone whenever possible. If the plan went awry he was always to blame, if the group failed it was because of him, when things fell apart it was his fault. For the longest time he had believed he was cursed, until the day he refused to be a scapegoat any longer.

This mission was going to fail he knew it, and he refused to be a part of it as long as Spitfire was there.

Elite battlemages patrolled the high stone walls, it's massive gates tightly closed as Malistaire softly uttered the command to open them. Magic hummed about the air, the solid metal gates screeched eerily as they opened.

Half of him wished it was summer, he would have preferred to find himself at his family's private cottage away from the city. But, this large sprawling stone estate was home... whether he liked it or not.

Upon entering the courtyard, he was immediately met with the sight of a fearsome drake carved out of solid granite. Thousands of names had been inscribed into the stone pedestal on which it proudly stood. To his left the general's favored battle mages trained in the dueling circle, and to his right servants rushed between the landing pad and rookery tending to the massive fiery battle drakes that were the general's pride and joy.

Malistaire sighed... It irritated him that the general seemed to care more for his drakes and battle mages than his own family at times.

The general, his father, Vladan Valdus Drake X, a lofty family name stained with ten generations of blood, battle, and war. Malistaire was thankful his mother broke that family tradition, the idea of possibly having the name Vladan Valdus Drake the XI was unnerving.

The general was a quick-tempered man, who ran his house with the exacting clockwork of any military fortress. Every morning started with a paper schedule slipped under his door, something Malistaire was almost tempted to laugh at. For a man who was always preoccupied doing with his work for the army, Malistaire wondered where he found the time to make a schedule for everyone else in his life.

Then again, he probably had someone to do that for him. Malistaire was sure the general cared for nothing, except his work. He could hardly remember the last time he saw him, there were days that he doubted the man's existence.

Malistaire, thankfully, he knew his mother existed, a powerful mage who spent her days in the House of Healers within the central ring of the city. She seldom left that place, there were always more wounded soldiers to be tended to.

To tell the truth, the only person Malistaire saw daily was his brother Cyrus, though lately he'd taken to locking himself in his own chambers (something that had to do with painting trees). Something that had made for many boring afternoons.

Outside of that there were countless extended family members; aunts, uncles, cousins who would come and go before Malistaire could remember their names. Some of them were kept close and held dear, some up to twelve times removed but welcome nonetheless, others were so distant they had charts to prove they we related at all. No doubt that was the reason why the Drake's name was so common in comparison to the other Dragonspyrian clans.

The estate itself seemed hollow of late, the halls fell silent long ago, the inhabitants were now his family, the servants, the guards, and those the general needed at his beck and call.

It hadn't always been this way but those times had come and gone... they hardly mattered now.

Malistaire moved swiftly into his chambers and quickly sealed the doors behind him. He had no desire to be disturbed, he needed some time to himself, enough time to purge the thoughts that were poisoning his mind.

Malistaire took a seat at his desk, locating a quill and ink as he rummaged throughout the drawers for a familiar thick black journal. He quickly opened it to the nearest empty page, normally he would have begun writing immediately, though today he lacked the words…

He quickly closed the book and began to search for a single sheet of parchment instead, he soon found one and began to pen a letter of acceptance to the dean.

He kept the letter short and concise, grandeur was unesseccary and would only muddle his reply.

Malistaire sighed again... his gaze falling over the journal, Spitfire's image still burned in his mind. No matter what he did, somehow the image of her was stuck there. He could still feel her gaze, as if she'd burnt his skin with it, those emerald green eyes and the fire roaring behind them.

He wondered what lay in those untamable flames, his own curiosity was causing his sanity to crumble.

Slowly he opened the journal again and stared at the blank page before him. He started to write something unsure of where the words were going, he didn't get very far before a knock came at the door.

"It's open Cyrus." Malistaire answered without looking away from the mostly blank page before him.

"How did you know it was me?" His brother said sounding slightly disappointed as he walked in.

"I told one of the servants I was not to be disturbed. You would not believe how quickly that narrowed the options."

"Well, I suppose your meeting with the dean went well."

Malistaire's thoughts stopped, "Who told you about my meeting with the dean?"

"You did, just now."

Malistaire went silent then looked back down at his journal, hoping his brother would lose interest.

"One paper tonight? I suppose your professors are trying to lighten the workload for you."

"If you have a point, then make it already. My time is very precious, and patience is very thin."

"I met with a certain friend of mine, who also saw the dean and said you where there. Let's just say she was more than displeased with your behavior."

Of course, that was why Spitfire had looked so familiar, Cyrus had invited her here several times to assist him with a report.

"My behavior? I would concern yourself more with hers. Flaunting her rank at me like some sniveling-"

Cyrus chuckled, "Correct me if I'm wrong but doesn't she outrank you? You're not even an officer."

"Breath a word of that to her and I'll have you head."

"Oooh, it would seem I've struck a nerve."

"If you came here only to taunt me then I advise you to leave, **now**."

"Oh, but where's the fun in that, dear brother?" Cyrus spoke slyly.

"What do you want then?"

"The truth, what did the dean want with the both of you."

"I cannot tell you, it's between the dean, Spitfire, and myself. Now if you'll excuse me."  
Malistaire seized his journal from the desk and left the room.

He had no intention of explaining anything to Cyrus, not that he could, the order was clear he was not to speak of the mission to anyone.

Their mother had always fought to ensure her sons would be well-rounded gentlemen and not simply two more battlemages in the armies of Dragonspyre. Many years ago, she had asked them to choose something they wished to study in detail, his brother had chosen art and had become a decent painter but art had never been Malistaire's forte.

He'd taken up a few hobbies over the years, of late he spent much of his spare time studying philosophy or trying to contemplate the purpose of life. He'd briefly taken up poetry many years ago, though he was never any good at it. However, he had discovered one passion of his over the years, one that lay silently for him to return.

A somewhat small room unremarkable room that was blissfully silent and completely devoid of people. A small fireplace stood on the far wall, while a single large lounge chair and low table inhabited a rug at the center on the room. Across from that a rather full bookshelf had been pushed against the wall along with the aging grand piano his father had supposedly given his mother as a wedding gift.

When he was little he would hide just outside the doorway and listen to her play. She would play some of the most enchanting music for hours on end, he thought she never noticed him. That was until she stumbled upon him sleeping on the floor just outside the door.

Listening quickly turned into learning, Malistaire chuckled slightly, recalling the fumbling of his hands as he learned to play single notes, then chords, songs, and eventually entire suites.

Malistaire set down the book, and sat himself down on the piano bench. He tapped a few keys, the notes answered clearly beneath his fingers, his mother must have finally gotten someone to tune it.

He had no desire to play a specific piece, he would improvise until he could play no more. The depth of the chords gave him solace, it helped him to think, it was soothing...

In this place, the notes reflected his emotions, from his deepest sorrows to greatest joy. Days, weeks, months, years of his life undone and rewoven into a chorus and his soul was its master. The stories he could never tell, the things he could never say, the words he could never speak were sung wordlessly by the piano.

Slowly the melody began to evolve into something more, something new, something as beautiful as it was tormenting.

And for the first time in what seemed like ages; he wished someone, anyone, had been there to hear it.


End file.
